I'm Kevin, let's talkhttps://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com
Yes, I am a queer little fella. That's exactly what I am.
Wed, 13 Feb 2019 09:28:28 +0000 en
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1 http://wordpress.com/https://secure.gravatar.com/blavatar/f594491913fd1f7f7b6b1fdd41cc1d30?s=96&d=https%3A%2F%2Fs0.wp.com%2Fi%2Fbuttonw-com.pngI'm Kevin, let's talkhttps://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com
Some straight men are just relieved when you gays don’t try to woo themhttps://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com/2017/09/10/some-straight-men-are-just-relieved-when-you-gays-dont-try-to-woo-them/
https://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com/2017/09/10/some-straight-men-are-just-relieved-when-you-gays-dont-try-to-woo-them/#respondSun, 10 Sep 2017 01:58:09 +0000http://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com/?p=516Continue reading Some straight men are just relieved when you gays don’t try to woo them]]>I recently attended an event about the life and work of James Baldwin. I knew him only as the author of Giovanni’s Room, which I hadn’t yet read, and as a civil rights activist. But I didn’t know any details about the man.

The event was pegged to the publication of a fancy new edition of Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time. The book costs $200, so neither you nor I can afford it. But it contains old and new photographs by Steve Schapiro, who captured some of the most arresting portraits of the civil rights era. In fact, Schapiro was at the event itself, recounting tales of travelling to the south as a white photographer and hanging out with people like Baldwin and Martin Luther King.

The other speaker was Quincy Troupe, a poet and writer who knew Baldwin in the 70s and 80s. He was the last person to interview Baldwin, in his home in France before he died in 1987.

Because of the book publication, the discussion centred on Baldwin’s role in civil rights activism. But to me, it was also of interest that Baldwin was gay, and made such a huge contribution to gay life as Giovanni’s Room, which I knew was significant. (I’ve since read it, and I can confirm it’s stunning and still important.) So I was pleased to hear the moderator bring up Baldwin’s love of men. He asked something like, “What role did his homosexuality play in his activism?”

I thought that was a poor question. It’s not quite clear what it meant, or how one might answer it. The speakers bungled it. The both sorta shrugged and said that Baldwin had never tried anything with them.

I was shocked by this answer—from both of them. Whatever the question was, it definitively wasn’t about that! What on earth made them both think that we’d be interested in whether Baldwin fancied them, or, knowing they were straight, made a pass at them? Sure, it’s fun gossip but we were here to discuss his activism and his courage and his brain. Whether he shared his dick pics is another matter entirely.

I decided to give them a second chance. In the audience Q&A, I raised my hand. I asked: “My question isn’t whether you were worried that he’d come on to you, but whether he worried that his homosexuality would be used against him or to undermine the civil rights movement?”

I don’t think they’d ever thought about that, because yet again they bungled it. They both said he didn’t hide his sexuality but also that it wasn’t on display either.

Hmmm. OK.

What is it about straight guys who can’t give a straight answer like “I don’t know”?

It was clear they hadn’t discussed this with Baldwin. Or at least that he hadn’t confided his thoughts in them. I still don’t know the answer. I will have to read more about Baldwin.

Meanwhile I can amuse myself by picturing these two usually thoughtful and well-meaning guys stumbling over this topic. The story shows that even with gay people in your life, you have to go the extra mile to understand where they’re coming from. And I don’t mean worrying about the angle at which they’ll try to lean in for a wet snog.

]]>https://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com/2017/09/10/some-straight-men-are-just-relieved-when-you-gays-dont-try-to-woo-them/feed/0Seductive manimkevinletstalkBeing queer on a straight night outhttps://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com/2017/09/10/being-queer-on-a-straight-night-out/
https://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com/2017/09/10/being-queer-on-a-straight-night-out/#respondSun, 10 Sep 2017 01:54:49 +0000http://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com/?p=513Continue reading Being queer on a straight night out]]>It can be a nervous condition. That is the phrase used to describe the experience of the colonised in the presence of a foreign, military power. But for me, being the only queer at a party isn’t like being a black person in Rhodesia in the 19th century, surrounded by British soldiers. It’s more like being one of the soldiers, but particularly the quirky one who would probably cough at the wrong moment and get everybody killed.

This week I went to two parties and let me say now that I enjoyed them both. Different people, different drinks, different places—all fun. What I’m discussing here is not quality differences (high or low); just sub-cultural ones.

The first party was for the 4th of July and it was hosted by a guy I know and his two boyfriends (they’re all in a relationship together). They live in a house with a lesbian couple—each relationship has its own flat, but they all own the house together, or at least as much as the law allows. The party was mostly people in their 20s, 30s and 40s. I didn’t know the gender of some of the guests. This is always tough for me initially because we’re all trained to want to categorise a person based on that most basic of characteristics when we meet them. But once you’ve talked for a bit you realise it doesn’t really matter. As it happened, this person and I found plenty of common ground making fun of our mutual friend, the night’s host.

I spent most of my time talking to two or three men who I assumed easily were gay. We had fun sparring verbally, and one of them even gave me a back rub. I said I assumed they were gay, or queer or whatever, and the point is: it was a fair assumption. With three gay hosts, it was safe to say there’d be many gay guests. This is partly why I felt so comfortable. Even if I started chatting up a poor straight boy, it’s not as if he’d punch me. Not there. In a straight pub, there’s always that chance.

So I flirted dangerously. I touched men—just a hand on the arm, that kind of thing. I even hugged strangers. I chatted to one young woman briefly, mostly about the collective house she lives in, and she said she liked me, and I’d have to come to her next party, and then the fireworks started and she put her hand around my waist. It was not a come-on. She’s probably gay and I had probably mentioned sucking dick in her presence. It was just two people—opposite genders!—sharing a moment of human touch and gunpowder.

The next party was a Saturday night. It was thrown by a friend in honour of her friend who’d just moved to New York City. I picked up a bottle of gin, one of tonic, and a lemon, and dragged them up two flights of stairs to the flat. It’s in the West Village—full of bars and restaurants. It’s so expensive, I’m shocked I know anyone who lives there.

There was a decent volume when I arrived. I could hear it from the hallway. When I went to a gay house party a few weeks ago, it was quiet, guests were supping at tiny drinks, and they looked at me when I came in. Instant judgement. I didn’t feel that on the Saturday welcome party. Most people barely noticed the newcomer as I walked in. I did a quick scan: there was no boy I fancied—so there wasn’t even the chance of me making it a queer party.

I set about making old-fashioneds with the hostess. We clinked and supped—delicious. Most of the girls were pretty smart, and the guys were guys, which means checkered shirts or stripey Ts. Clean sneakers. It wasn’t this that intimidated me about the men. It was that they were clustered together. They may not have been talking about sports or women but even if they were talking about something I could join in with, the style of an all-straight-guy convo is usually too much for me. They compete to know stuff and I just zzzz.

So I found myself in the hostess’s bedroom—quieter, cooler, but still open to the rest of the party. I spent most of my time there chatting and joking with the subject of the party, her friend, a hanger-on, and a humourless, superior gloop. The hostess thought the gloop and I might get along because we do a similar job but, god, she was a bore. She just seemed very uptight, unwilling to give anything away or even to try to crack a joke. It was as if she only dropped by so she had someone to tell that she’d just been to such-and-such an art gallery.

So I spent most of my time at the straight party in the company of women, and at the queer party in mixed company. (Straight men, you scare me?)

I did interact with men a little. Most notably with the guy who is kinda getting together with my friend the hostess. He controlled the music for a period just before we all went out. I can’t remember what exactly happened now, but he and I conspired to choose a song—and our conspiracy was felt by both of us to be a victory. We spontaneously high-fived to seal the win, and I jumped up and said, “Oh my god, that was the most masculine thing I’ve ever done!”

Everyone laughed. I punched the air and said, “I’m a man.”

Fortunately the guy didn’t misjudge this as mockery. Even though he’s tall, dark, bearded and handsome—the height of a ‘man’. Did I say well-dressed?

It was my spirit to play along with the game and everyone else’s amusement of me that propelled us all, together, to the nearby pub. We paid $10 to get in (“It all goes to the band,” the door lady said, a little too earnestly.)

The pub was jumping. Up and down in the straightest of lines. More men in checkered shirts and gelled hair. Women wearing straps, their hair shiny as if anyone could really tell in the darkness of a pub that seemed to charge $10 for everything (I got an amaretto and coke). The band was fronted by a chubby guy with a shaved head and a black T-shirt who knew all the words to Summer of ’69. He needn’t have learnt them: everyone in the bar chanted them all anyway. Booze was everywhere, including the floor. Lonely men sat at the edges, and women tried to chatter between songs.

My crowd was fun, so I was having fun. I knew I wouldn’t last long—that pub was a little too much. But then the opening chords of Bruce Springsteen’s Born to Run started—and I lost my shit. I know every word, every pause, even the rhythm of the sax solo. One of our party was trying to air-guitar it but I quickly showed him it was a sax sound—and then I played it out. As if I were channeling Clarence himself.

Of course, the new manly friend I’d high-fived knew the words too. Our hostess and the subject of the party were a little lost, but entertained anyway. This was how the guy and I had our second bro-ment: first a high-five and then screaming Springsteen lyrics to each other amid a Village din.

]]>https://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com/2017/09/10/being-queer-on-a-straight-night-out/feed/0busy night outimkevinletstalkI’m back and I want to stayhttps://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com/2017/09/10/im-back-and-i-want-to-stay/
https://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com/2017/09/10/im-back-and-i-want-to-stay/#respondSun, 10 Sep 2017 01:49:09 +0000http://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com/?p=505Continue reading I’m back and I want to stay]]>It’s fair to say it’s been some time since I posted anything here. I have NOT abandoned thinking, observing or even writing in that time. I just haven’t posted anything here. I guess I get anxious as Kevin… I mean, what’s the point in posting anything here? The blog has hardly any followers? My other social media channels where I actually use my name have far more followers, so why not use them? Well, because I don’t want to embarrass my employer and I want to be free to say anything and everything at the same time.

These are the famous last words, especially on a blog, but: I’m going to try posting here again. I want to write at least one post per week, around 500 words, certainly no more than 1,000. Sharp, insightful and timely.

I need to quit worrying about saying something amazingly original every time, and just be true. I started that again just now with a post about travelling while single. Bring it on.

Note, one relevant piece of news since I started the blog is that I moved from London to New York. Not forever, just for a bit. We’ll see.

]]>https://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com/2017/09/10/im-back-and-i-want-to-stay/feed/0imkevinletstalkBeing a single person who travelshttps://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com/2017/09/10/being-a-single-person-who-travels/
https://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com/2017/09/10/being-a-single-person-who-travels/#respondSun, 10 Sep 2017 01:39:50 +0000http://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com/?p=501Continue reading Being a single person who travels]]>You have to be prepared to pay a lot. I just rented a car for $354 for four days. Most of that seems to be the cost of insurance. If I had a partner it would be half price. We’d share the cost, right?

I’d also hope that my partner would be someone who knows how car insurance works. Say, the difference between ‘collision waiver’ and ‘liability only’. Or even understands how I paid Expedia for some insurance only to have the Enterprise car rental lady explain to me at pick up that I didn’t have enough and that she couldn’t really tell what I had bought from Expedia. Neither of us knew what was missing in order for me not to be put in jail if pulled over.

It was embarrassing for the both of us: an under-researched consumer and an incompetent sales clerk. Oh dear.

I wish I had a husband who could have cleared it up.

But really, this essay is not an account of how low I am because I lack a husband or partner. I am not at all low about it. I have a wonderful, fulfilling life. I am not one-half of something. I am the something.

But it’s also not an essay of how great I am. Instead, it’s about the feelings I have when I travel alone. It’s a cacophony, these feelings. If you can’t take the feelings, look away now. You’ll never be my husband.

I’m in Acadia National Park in Maine. Just me and a tent and a bag full of food for three days. Plus other happy campers… As I write this, the two families in the plots beside me are getting to know one another. “This is Alice.” / “Hi!” / “We’re going kayaking tomorrow.” / “Oh, that’s on our list too haha!”

That’s because you’re in the woods; of course your lists match, dickhead. I find them insufferable. The small talk. The fake bonding that won’t endure. The identical family formatting.

I’m not just a grouch. I’m not blue—I’m happy. I just get tired of banter and families easily. Of course, there are couples here too—child-free couples, or perhaps they’re just pre-child. They’re ante-child while I’m anti-child.

One man earlier brought something out of the car and checked with his partner if it was the right thing. When she agreed, he said, “I thought so. I just didn’t want to make the decision alone.” Cute! Like a head on a spike.

God knows what the item was. I didn’t want to peer through the trees at them too closely. Was it the dildo she’d fuck him with tonight on a Therm-A-Rest? Or just the variety of trail mix that comes with M&Ms, as opposed to the boring one?

I just sound mean, because I’m in a mood where I don’t want to interact with people. And the idea of having a partner here to have to interact with—to be thinking about their feelings all the time and making sure they’re OK—well, that would be terrible. It doesn’t sound much like a holiday at all.

But on the other hand, it also sounds wonderful to have someone here. I’ve only been in the park, camped, for around four hours but I’ve already had fleeting moments where I’ve pined for this friend or that friend. So-and-so would like this sunset. Or what’s-his-chops would be fun to have around. Or if thingamabob were here, we’d make much more of an effort with the cooking than I’m doing alone.

I’ve even thought—gasp!—that it’d be cool to have a partner. Not just to share the costs. But because, I realised, that you get to do the things you both enjoy—together. I realised this in the supermarket, of course. It was called Shaw’s and it’s in Bangor, Maine. I stocked up on trail mix (without), fresh fruit and crackers. I got to make all the decisions (thank god I got them right). But I did also dream fleetingly of sweeping down the aisles with a partner. In unison, he’d grab the crackers while I’d grab the peanut butter on the opposite side. Beautiful symmetry, in a moment we’d been awaiting for months: our well-earned holiday with no colleagues or family to have to deal with. And we chose this.

This essay does not conclude with the realisation that whether he knows about car insurance or not, I need a partner. No. I do not feel this way. I just took a walk by the beach, dodging the stones thrown out to sea by a competitive family, and I just let my thoughts flow. I could do this. Because I was alone. I am alone here. It’s why I do this—to stay in touch with myself. Corny! Like a group hug in Disneyworld.

I like solitude, or at least the chance to think, alone. I know many relationships don’t have the space for that, and it terrifies me.

Other people know. They’ll tell you. They’ll look at you and their eyes will show what they’re feeling. They’ll text you, they’ll wolf-whistle you, they’ll whisper it in your ear.

For some people, this is how they find out whether they’re attractive: by waiting for others to make the judgement. And even then, they may not believe what they’re told.

But some of us decide ourselves whether we’re good-looking. We just decide one day: you know what, I’m alright. I’m at least 82% of the way I’d like to be, and that’s enough. If that guy doesn’t find me attractive, it’s his loss; someone else will. This is how I feel, aged 31, having spread out most of my teenage puppy fat and having resigned myself to the fact that unless I do crunches I’m not going to have a totally flat stomach with pecs (I choose books over crunches).

Still… how do I feel when someone says I’m attractive? My friend asked me that recently, and I came up with three answers. Here they are. I said it first depends on the person doing the flattering, and the circumstances.

If it’s a guy who I find attractive, I’ll feel pleased with him saying I’m fit. It’s not that it will make me feel better (I’m already happy with my 82%, remember). But what it does make me feel is promise. We both find each other attractive, so there’s the chance, probably slim, that we might be able to snog. Or maybe more. So I have a simple reaction to a fit guy calling me fit: “Let’s hang out?”

If it’s a guy who I don’t find attractive, I’ll feel no different about myself (still 82% loving it!), but I will feel pleased for him. It’s lovely that I’m the source of his pleasure, even if it’s just a simple, unreciprocated visual pleasure that he gets from looking at me. I love looking at people who I find beautiful. You know the feeling: you can’t take your eyes off them, but you’re in KFC and it’s weird to stare too long at anything other than the menu board. So my reaction to this kind of compliment is: “Close, mate, but not close enough.”

This is the most common way that a person says I’m attractive. It’s when a person compliments you on your look. It’s a colleague who says, “Oooh, you got a hair cut, that’s nice.” Or your sister who says “I like you in that shirt”. Or your gay friend who says “I do think you’re hot, I don’t wanna shag you, because it’s you, but other guys will. Love you!” These sorts of compliments always take me by surprise because they’re always so incidental to everything else that’s going on. They sorta don’t really mean anything. Unlike Type 1 (above), Type 3 is completely useless to me. I mean, it’s nice—but I don’t really receive as anything. I’m already at 82%! I’m good. I’m sorted. I’ll find someone to do Type 1 with.

What do you think? Are there any more ways?

]]>https://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com/2016/07/24/i-have-three-reactions-for-when-someone-says-im-attractive/feed/0imkevinletstalkfrttyldldWhy is the man in my office who wears shorts mocked for it?https://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com/2016/07/24/why-is-the-man-in-my-office-who-wears-shorts-mocked-for-it/
https://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com/2016/07/24/why-is-the-man-in-my-office-who-wears-shorts-mocked-for-it/#respondSun, 24 Jul 2016 13:50:05 +0000http://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com/?p=415Continue reading Why is the man in my office who wears shorts mocked for it?]]>I’d noticed the shorts. Of course I’d noticed the shorts. We were all in a big meeting, and there they were, failing to cover my colleague’s pale white legs, making his sandals even more obvious. Every other man around him wore trousers. They kept their legs to themselves. Even though it was one of the hottest days of the year, and we were all sweltering. I was doubly surprised: firstly, a colleague was wearing seconds, and secondly, it was Ted, who had always seemed to me to be quite traditional.

“Did you see Ted’s summer attire?” our colleague David scoffed, when he and I were alone in the lift. I knew that he wasn’t really gunning for Ted; it was just light mockery. It’s a form of friendly fire that people dismiss as “banter”.

“Oh, erm…? Oh, the shorts and sandals,” I said, playing dumb initially, to indicate that I hadn’t really thought about Ted’s clothing.

Then I paused. I thought for a split second, and then decided to plunge in and say something. “It’s so hot,” I said. “You’ve gotta do something.”

If I’d had more time to think about my reply, or to write it and redraft it, I’d have said something better. Something like: “On a day like today, Ted’s the smartest man in the room.” Or: “He’s an example to us all: sensible, practical, and unconcerned about gossip in the lift.” Or even: “Yeah, what’s your problem, David?”

In any case, David seemed to be quieted by my response. He must have detected that I didn’t want to engage in the banter. You might say that I won, but I don’t feel like I did. I was still wearing trousers, and I knew then that I would still wear them the next day too.

When I started working with the colleagues I have now, I noticed that the men were fairly uniform in what they wear. They were not as uniform as everyone wearing a grey or navy suit—effectively an actual uniform. But most of them wear a casual shirt and comfortable trousers, such as jeans or chinos. The colours and patterns are subtle. There are no Hawaiian carnivals or African prints.

I was very conscious of this when I started, and although I hate the idea of having to fit in, I made decisions that I wouldn’t have made in my old job. I decided against wearing certain T-shirts or, if I did wear them, I’d made sure it was on a day when I’d keep my plain jumper on over the top. More recently, nearly a year into my job I’m feeling more comfortable at work, and I believe people are aware of what I’m able to do—so I’ve been relaxing my own dress code. What does that mean? It means I’ll now wear a T-shirt without a jumper or shirt over the top. It means I’ll leave my shoes under my desk and walk around in socks.

Of course, the kind of lift-located mockery Ted is enduring is nothing compared to the harassment that women have endured for centuries. And the annoyance I feel when I scan my wardrobe and decide what to wear, and what it means, is tiny compared to what women have to go through. But still, it’s real.

I’m still not as brave as Ted. I wear shorts all the time in the summer outside of work. But the combination of shorts and the trainers or sandals I’d wear them with might be all too much for people like David. I can’t be arsed with that kind of crap.

I usually fudge an answer. I’m polite about it. Rarely am I honest when I reply. But this is a blog, and I can be honest here. So here’s my uncensored response to that question:

How’s my love life? Lol. I don’t have one. I have a sex life. Ask me about my sex life. It’s pretty good right now, thanks. You know my sex life goes up and down. I’m often horny… and since I don’t have a regular sex partner, it can be hard (so to speak). But I had sex the other day with a new guy I met. I think we’d both like to do it again. He’s got a partner too, but they’re in an open relationship and they sometimes have sex with a third guy, so maybe I can be that third guy—that’d be exciting. I’ve had a few threesomes. I’d like more.

Oh, sorry, is that too much information? Sorry. But I’m gonna go on anyway. You need to hear this. You asked about my love life, and sex is a kind of love, so I’m telling you about that instead.

The thing is, there are lots of different kinds of love. I mean, it’s almost infinite isn’t it? I love my friends, and I love them all in different ways. I love Neil because he’s smart and because he indulges my impulse to analyse myself and others endlessly. We do that together. We share many political views. We have brain sex. I can tell him anything and he’ll understand, or try damn hard to. He was one of the first people I came out to, and his reaction was brilliant. We don’t touch, except to hug hello and goodbye, but last night he was drunk and he climbed into a hammock with me and called me his best friend. Neil’s a member of my love life. Oh, that’s not what you meant when you asked about my love life?

What about my sister then? She’s always there, she’ll always listen, even when we disagree. It’s she and I against our parents a lot of the time. For years we’ve dealt with their disappointment in us—we know it’s bullshit, and yet we still need each other’s love to get through it. If my sister thinks I’m OK, then I’m OK. This is unconditional love, right? She’s an anchor. The thought of not having her around is awful. We love each other, and it’s a bond we can almost actually feel. She’s in my love life. She’s part of my answer.

But I know you didn’t really mean that. You turn your nose up, because it’s almost as if I’m implying that I’m in a relationship with my sister—haha! It’s just that I guess I don’t have the kind of love you’re talking about. You’re talking about a partnership-love, aren’t you? The kind of love that bonds two people together in a balanced partnership and that has special status. The kind of love that gets extra recognition when it becomes a marriage. That’s the love you mean? Thought so. Well, I don’t have it. Maybe I will have it someday, but right now I don’t. And, frankly, it’s weird when you ask me that question—”How is your love life?”—because wouldn’t you know if I had the kind of love you mean?

The fact that you know I don’t have a partner and yet you ask me that question anyway implies that you think I want that kind of love. Or, worse, that I should have that kind of love. Haha. Please don’t have that view of me. It’s not a good look.

Instead, ask me a question about my love life broadly. Maybe find a better word? “How are all your relationships going right now?” Or “What’s been the most helpful relationship in your love life right now?”

If you really want to know how I am, and how I’m feeling in relation to other people, ask about the quality of the bond with my sister. Ask about my friendships, and the things I’ve discovered in them, and the ways my friends and I have helped each other recently. Ask about what sex I’m having or the sex I’m not. Ask about all the options I have for finding sex, the quick kinds of sex, the unfulfilling kinds, the surprisingly good kinds, and the time I didn’t have sex for 10 years.

Thanks for your interest, and thanks for your love. You’re part of my love life now.

]]>https://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com/2016/07/17/hows-your-love-life-ahem-i-mean-your-sex-life/feed/0imkevinletstalkBoy Stroke Girl: a play without a heart or a brainhttps://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com/2016/05/31/boystrokegirl/
https://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com/2016/05/31/boystrokegirl/#respondTue, 31 May 2016 06:38:08 +0000http://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com/?p=357Continue reading Boy Stroke Girl: a play without a heart or a brain]]>There are no two ways about it. Ian Dixon Peter’s Boy Stroke Girl is a terrible play.

The story follows a hip young guy called Peter who starts to fall in love with someone called Blue without knowing Blue’s sex or gender. I should have known this was going to be awful. The premise is bad enough: gimmicky at best, and requiring mockery at worst. (The writer chose the second option.)

There are three main problems with this play, so I’m just going to focus on those.

First, the play conflates sex and gender, and doesn’t even break down gender identity from gender expression. If we can expect plays in the 21st century to tackle so fundamental a topic as gender, then we should at least expect them not to make this mistake. I don’t mean that the characters necessarily have to know the difference between gender identity or gender expression (even though it’s not hard, and it’s easily explained with reference to a few ‘masculine trannies’ like Grayson Perry). But the playwright should at least know the difference, and somehow explore it. In Boy Stroke Girl, Blue is entirely ambiguous: we know nothing of their sex or their gender identity, and we can see that their gender expression is deliberately vague. In this way we’re put in Peter’s shoes: looking at Blue, hunting for clues, not caring about anything else.

This brings me to the second point. That we don’t care about anything else except Blue’s gender (or sex) is the play’s greatest failure. Because the characters are so uninteresting, and we don’t find out anything about their struggles, and we don’t really see them go through any problems, we just don’t care about them. Instead, we’re positioned to be as obsessed with Blue as Peter is, yet the basis of that obsession is gender—in a play which wants to transcend gender. Peter at least spots this: in the one scene that is actually enlightening, Peter stole words from my lips and tells Blue that although they are trying to ignore gender, it’s all they can talk about. It’s almost as if the playwright knows this is the play’s problem, and he writes it into the script. By this point in the story, it’s almost as if he’s fed up with it himself.

The third and final problem is character. Blue is awful. Blue is annoying, self-obsessed, emotionally distant, whiney, and says there are far more interesting things about them than their sex or gender—but then doesn’t seem to be able to prove it. Blue also says the same line over and over again. Sometimes that’s funny in a play; a playwright writes a character that way in order to mock them. But in Boy Stroke Girl we’re supposed to agree with Blue that sex/gender labels are annoying. But to have Blue keep moaning like a 15-year-old that “labels don’t define me” just has to be one of the most annoying things I’ve seen on stage in a long time. I’d love to do a command-F on the script for “label” and “define”.

In any case, Blue’s whinging would almost be acceptable if we knew anything else about them. If we had some feelings to hook onto, or some character history that would help us understand where they come from—either of these would be great. But no. This makes the audience incredulous towards the love story. There’s an unwittingly funny picnic scene where Blue and Peter tell each other that they’re falling in love. They’re in their mid-late-twenties but really they sound like 15-year-olds because the basis of their love seems to be their shared love of a television show. They haven’t helped each other. They haven’t shown each other their vulnerabilities. How can this be love?

Boy Stroke Girl is the kind of play that makes you feel bad for the actors. They all tried hard, but even a good chef can’t make a meal out of a turd.

PS. Blue/Peter? Really?

The play is on at Tristan Bates Theatre until June 4th, but you should only go if you feel sorry for the actors or want to give money to this usually excellent theatre.

]]>https://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com/2016/05/31/boystrokegirl/feed/0imkevinletstalkboy stroke girl playBlue_Peter_badge_3165518bDoes the Boris Johnson and Donald Trump mural rely on our distaste of men kissing?https://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com/2016/05/25/does-the-boris-johnson-and-donald-trump-mural-rely-on-our-distaste-of-men-kissing/
https://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com/2016/05/25/does-the-boris-johnson-and-donald-trump-mural-rely-on-our-distaste-of-men-kissing/#respondWed, 25 May 2016 06:53:31 +0000http://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com/?p=314Continue reading Does the Boris Johnson and Donald Trump mural rely on our distaste of men kissing?]]>If you haven’t seen this photo yet, here you go. It depicts a mural that appeared in Bristol this weekend, in which the stomping anti-Brussels brigadier Boris Johnson snogs America’s orange-faced Donald Trump. The presidential wannabe grabs Boris at the back of the head in one of those passionate he-really-wants-me moments.

The point of the mural is to deter voters from opting to follow Boris out of the EU in our referendum on June 23rd. The mural says: you probably think Trump is a bit of a fart, so if you do, don’t give your support to Boris and the Vote Leave campaign because it will only strengthen the connection between these two. This connection is embodied in that lip-sucking snog we see so beautifully brought to life in luscious pinks and oranges.

But I wonder whether the mural is relying on some people’s distaste at seeing two men kissing, especially two older men kissing? It is without doubt that some people really do not like to see two men kissing. Aren’t they likely to have their distaste activated by this mural? If they do, then the mural works in trying to persuade them that a vote to leave the EU is a bad idea. And some people may not be anti-gay at all, but seeing two men kissing is a shock to them because it is rare. It makes them stand up and pay attention. I know it’s only satire—and of course I wouldn’t want to staunch it—but I just think it’s worth stopping and thinking about this for a second.

Of course, it could simply be that people don’t like to see politicians kissing. They know how slimy they are—especially Trump and BoJo—and that never makes for a good kiss. Satirists often depict two politicians kissing. Here’s former Soviet leader Leonid Brezhnev doing the tongue tango with former East German leader Erich Honecker.

The snog is a convention of political art. Fair enough. But in the intention of the Boris/Donald mashup, I just wonder whether there are some votes won off the back of unease at two men going at it.

]]>https://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com/2016/05/25/does-the-boris-johnson-and-donald-trump-mural-rely-on-our-distaste-of-men-kissing/feed/0imkevinletstalkScreen Shot 2016-05-25 at 07.49.22BrezhnevkissingErichHonecker_AFPobama kissing chavez.jpgtrump kissing putinA letter to Kevin because he’s worried about his bodyhttps://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com/2016/05/22/a-letter-to-kevin-because-hes-worried-about-his-body/
https://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com/2016/05/22/a-letter-to-kevin-because-hes-worried-about-his-body/#respondSun, 22 May 2016 19:40:52 +0000http://imkevinletstalk.wordpress.com/?p=310Continue reading A letter to Kevin because he’s worried about his body]]>This post was first published on May I Love My Body.

Dear little Kevin,

Take a breath. It’s OK. You’re OK. It’s just puppy fat.

I know you’re confused and disappointed. What you see when you look down isn’t what you’d choose. You’d choose what the other boys have. Flat stomachs and torsos. You might not want pecs or a six pack, but you definitely don’t want flabby boy-breasts. You don’t want a round belly. You’d be happier if your stomach was smooth all the way down, like you’ve seen on the other boys when you all change for your swimming lesson. What James Halton from the other class has is perfect. You wonder why you can’t have the same.

You just have to remember how you felt about your teeth. The dentist said there were two procedures to do. The first was to pull your bottom jaw forward so your teeth could gnash together properly. You had to wear a brace for nearly two years, in the day and through the night. The plastic was moulded into the shape of a futuristic spaceship that fitted snugly into your mouth and was held together with wire. It felt comfortable and safe in your mouth, but it stank like stale spit at the end of the day. Over two years it drew your bottom jaw forward and changed the shape of your face. Your teeth and gums are healthier for it. The dentist said the second procedure was optional. He said he could fit you with another set of braces that drew your teeth together and closed the gaps between them. He said this procedure was cosmetic, recommended for people who don’t like gaps.

You hadn’t really realised you had gaps until he said that. You didn’t mind the space between your two front teeth. You said you didn’t need the second set of braces. You shrugged it off. You should remember how you felt about that. Can you feel the same about your stomach? About your man-boobs? About all this extra flab? Not yet. It’s too annoying. It’s too obvious. It changes your whole body shape, and it means that you can’t look like James Halton. It’s OK. Take a breath. I can see you’re worried about this fat. I know you just want to take it off. I know that if you could you’d shake like a dog coming out of the sea. You’d hope the fat dissipates from you like the water flies from the dog.

It’s good you told your mum you’re sad about the fat. You’re lucky she knew how to handle you. She said you’re healthy. She said you don’t eat too much. She said it was just puppy fat and it didn’t matter. You didn’t really understand what ‘puppy fat’ meant. But you’re perceptive, so you know it’s not a serious kind of fat, and you know it’s temporary. ‘Puppy fat’ is a grown-up’s way of saying that. But it’s still dead annoying to have it hanging on you like this.

I don’t want it to stop you doing anything, Kevin. In fact, look, you’re growing up now. You’re taking the puppy fat with you as your body stretches taller. The puppy fat is spreading. Just look at your boobs change: they haven’t become pecs but they’re not flabby anymore either. You’re a little older and you need to get to your new self. Touch your chest, pick your fingers through these new hairs. You’re not happy about them, I know. Your body is flatter—still with some round bits, so it’s not like James’s—but now dark hairs have infested it. You don’t like them. You prefer chests without hairs. Yours are growing out of your nipples and you think it’s weird.

These are the reasons you wear a T-shirt on the beach. You don’t take your T-shirt off easily. You’ll go swimming in a lake in a couple of years—when you’re 19. You’ll feel uncomfortable about going topless among the other lads. You hardly ever take your T-shirt off. This is the reason why you’ll end up with a permanent farmer’s tan: your lower arms will forever be darker and more weathered than your upper arms. The effect is accentuated because your lower arms have freckles and hairs too. You don’t like the way this all looks. And your giant nipples that your friends jokingly said look like dinner plates.

You don’t feel sexy. As you grow up, for a long time, no one will say they want you. You don’t allow yourself to get close to people in that way. You don’t dare to look for people to kiss or to sleep with. You think you don’t need it. You don’t need it, but I know you’d really enjoy it. You say to yourself that you’re happy with yourself, and that’s largely true. But now I know that there’s so much more. So much more you could have if you wanted it. I know it’s not because of your body that you don’t seek out sex. But the fact that sex doesn’t come to you—that nobody tries to do it with you—well, that says something doesn’t it? That’s what you think, but it’s not necessarily true. Trust me: when everything is ready, sex will happen and you’ll love it.

In the meantime, you can learn to love your own body and find its pleasures. I know you’ll do this well. It’ll take time, but you’ll get to know the folds and the flab, and the hairs and the freckles. You’ll learn how to make yourself feel good when you touch certain parts, how easy it can be to have so much pleasure. And as you learn all of this you’ll also settle into your own mind. You’ll begin to know yourself better, who you are, what you want, and what you think is right. With that kind of mind, it doesn’t matter if you grow more flab.

Take a breath, little Kevin, you’ll be fine. Eventually you’ll be like me: you’ll know that you wouldn’t choose a chest without obvious muscles or a lower back with hair—but you don’t give a toss, because you didn’t have a choice. You take what you’re given and really it’s OK. It’s OK because it’s you. It’s you and nobody else. And that’s why I love you.